Checkmate, p.4
Checkmate, page 4
The phone glowed from where I had been trying to select Phyllis' number.
"Put it on the table," he said, narrowing his lack of stony eyes at me, "this instant."
I didn't see much choice in the matter as I slid the phone onto the table and with one swift movement, he backed up his hand and shot it at the phone, launching it into the air and into the wall on the far side of the kitchen. It didn't shatter, but it fell to the floor with a clamor and stopped glowing.
"Hey!" I said before I thought.
"TONE!" he shouted again. "What you don't seem to understand at this precise moment is that I have taken the time out of my day to have this discussion with you and you, arrogant and unforgiving, have decided to not pay attention to me and what I have gone through all the trouble to come here to say. Now, don't you think that's a trifle bit rude?"
"I-I..."
"I'm not here for arguments, missy. Now... I expect an apology, again. And this time you're going to tell me why you're apologizing, because I am not a mind reader, dear. And you are going to let me know if I should expect this sort of behavior from you in the future. Because, if I get this mistreatment for much longer, I will not be wasting my time. Is that understood?"
I tried not to make my sigh too visible.
"Yes."
"Good..." he said, waiting.
"I'm sorry... for being on my phone when you are trying to talk to me. And I won't do it again," I said. It's sad how much easier I found it to just go with whatever he said, rather than argue.
"Very well," the white King said, "And in the future you should know I won't abide by disrespectful tones. We're here to talk about your problems, not mine. I don't have any problems, understood?"
"Yes," I said, holding back every ounce of me that wanted to say his frowning, distorted face looked like he had quite a number of problems.
"Now... as to your occupation. This really will not do, you know? Waitress. I can tell it's not what you want to do so I'm here to question you on why you're considering it. What do you hope to gain out of it?"
"Well, it's really just to pay the bills, that's all. I mean... I can't exactly get a CEO position-"
"Watch. your. sarcasm."
I wanted to scream.
"I just mean that... I can't get anything very high up on the employment latter with no degree and no experience. I have to start at the bottom, which isn't very pretty, but it's kind of the only option I have right at this point."
"Is it really the only option? Or is it the only option you have the stomach for?"
If I could have slapped him across the face without breaking my hand or risking him breaking my hand, I would have.
"What do you mean?" I said, narrowing my eyes.
"Well... there must be some sort of career you can get, some sort of opportunity through your school or something that you haven't explored," he said, then cupping his hands in his chin like a cherub, "That's why people go to universities, my dear. To make connections like these."
What a complete asshole. But in this single instance, what he said made sense. And I hadn't actually tried getting anything through my university. It had a Careers Center and everything, but I hadn't bothered to go there, not even once.
"I guess it's something I could try," I said, staring at his sarcastic expressions. Damn it. He could be sarcastic all he wanted but I got hit with a wave of finger wagging if I did anything.
"You guess?"
"I will try it."
"Tomorrow?"
I did have a free period in between one of my classes where I could easily visit the Career Center. Damn that jerk.
"Yes. I'll go tomorrow."
"Fantastic," he said, looking at his wrist like he had a watch, though obviously such devices were far beyond the time of whatever era he was supposed to be King in, "Now, if you don't mind. It's getting quite late and you should have been done with all of this work ages ago. Time to pack it up and ship out."
"Right," I said, getting out of the booth, making a beeline towards my phone.
"And you need to spend less time on that thing and more time focusing on your studies," the King said, standing up from the booth with his hands on his hips.
"Right, gotcha," I said, pocketing my phone with the full intention on calling Phyllis when he decided to go back to being a tiny chest piece.
The white King extended his palms upward. "Well?" he said, eyebrow upturned.
"Have... a good night?"
He crossed his arms sharply. "Well. A stammer, poor conversational skills, and a frightful lack of manners as well. Loads to work on I see. Never occurred to you to say 'Thank you' for my time spent helping you out, did it?"
"I'm sorry. Thank you for helping me out. I appreciate it," I said quickly. I didn't even know what would happen if he got angry, I just knew I didn't want to see it.
"Very well," he said, expression unchanged. "I expect to see you've tried a little harder next time."
I looked at the phone in my pocket for a split second, and when I looked up again, the chess piece was still sitting back on the table, looking pristine and untouched, all the pieces facing in their correct position.
"We're sorry. But the number you have reached is no longer in service."
Turned out, I couldn't rely on Phyllis during hallucinations. Or did I hallucinate that the phone just said that? As the dial tone rang in my ear, I found myself going, "Hello? Phyllis? Phyllis? Hello?" for a moment before I realized how incredibly ridiculous I must've looked.
Chapter 4
"And you're here for?" a clearly under enthusiastic and underpaid employee of my university system said to me after I had signed my name on the Career Center sheet.
"I'm- uh. Well, I was hoping you guys might be able to give me some part time job options? Something I could do other than waitress? Something that might be..." Oh God. I was going to say it, wasn't I? "Some sort of opportunity I haven't explored? I mean... that's why people go to universities, isn't it? To make connections?" I had tried to swing my arm in a "gung-ho" type of way, shooting a sideways cheesy grin. But of course, this lady didn't have any idea what context I placed these words in. And it wasn't exactly like I could say, "At least that's what the marble white King told me last night when he jumped from my hands and grew to human proportions." Hallucinating never struck me as a valuable job skill.
She looked up at me blankly. "Right. Have a seat. One of the counselors will be with you in a moment."
I sat down on the typical wooden furniture that reminded me of the ones that decorated Phyllis' office. I had tried to call her again that morning and the number still wasn't in service. It then occurred to me that outside of our meetings, I really had no other way of getting a hold of her, which started to worry me. What if I had some sort of mental breakdown and needed like.. the ambulance version of mental health care? But then, when I thought about that, I could only picture that stereotypical image of the men in white coats coming to cart you away. God, did that even ever actually happen in real life or did we as a culture just decide we feared the mentally ill so bad that we invented this boogey man to scare everyone with?
Sometimes I thought I had too many thoughts. But even that's a thought as well so... there you have it.
"Ambrosia Gunnar," someone said out of the corner of the room, "This way."
I got up and followed them down the hallway until they led me to an open wooden door and gestured me to walk into the office.
"Hello there dear. Just one second. One second," said the enthusiastic man behind the counter, typing up a storm, "I've just got to finish this email if you'll just bear with me for a moment. Have a seat."
He'd obviously spent a lot of time decorating his office with the brightest colors the teacher crayon box could afford him. There was rainbow trims on all of the tan tacked message boards, pictures of him and various students smiling stuck onto them, some letters and cards from birthdays, Christmases, and just general Thank Yous for being a fantastic person. He sat behind a plain wooden desk he had also decorated with photos and tiny troll dolls with wild hair colors. I remembered owning a few when I was little and laughing at the impropriety of seeing the troll butts exposed, wanting to cover them with tiny troll pants, though no one else seemed all that bothered by troll nudity. It was something only a kid could laugh at.
He had a massive bookshelf and loads of other stuff strewn about. It wasn't a huge office, but what it lacked for in grandious-ness it made up with in colors and things to look at. I found myself not caring how long he took to finish his email, especially if I could get up and play with what looked like 50 Tamogotchis and NaNoPets he'd hung from hooks by his door. I don't know how this man managed to buy the rights to my childhood, but he'd done good things with it.
"Right, and... send!" he said, clicking the button on his mouse enthusiastically, "Now... Miss Ambrosia, lovely name by the way, let's get started with you, shall we?"
He extended his hand, "My name is Mr. Owens, but you're more than happy to call me Mike because Mr. Owens is my father and even though he's long since passed, it still feels as awkward for me to be called Mr. Owens as it did when I was your age, okay?"
Mike didn't seem all that old to have his father already passed. In truth, I can never accurately guess age with any form of luck, but if I had to say how old Mike was around his mid thirties. Maybe. Again, I'm really terrible at guessing age.
"Okay, no problem Mike."
"So, your official form here says you're here for some careers guidance but we all know that's a load of all hooey they can put on forms. So what it is it really dear, that you'd like help with?"
"Well... I thought maybe I could get some help with my job... right now I'm waitress-"
Mike's shoulders slunk and he tilted his head to the side like someone had just told him that they'd sunken a soufflé, whatever that was. I didn't know anything about soufflés, just that it really sucked when they fell or sunk or whatever the appropriate verb was.
"-yeah, and so... obviously that's not the best job and it's not exactly helping me for when I leave school, is it? So... ideally I'd like to find something that's not so... soul sucking?"
Mike nodded. "I myself have had to scrape the bottom of the barrel that is retail and wait staffing. Let me tell you, it's not a pretty sight. I once had the fantastic job of folding clothes at a Macy's. Do you know anything about working at Macy's?"
I shook my head.
"Well, let me just tell you that any job that only requires you to fold clothes and tell people where they can find shoes or other stores is the sort of job that will whittle your mind down to a nub," he said, "But... most people have to find themselves in that sort of industry at some point because very few of us are lucky enough to have the good graces of rich parents who can just pop us as an intern in one of their fancy companies, eh?"
I grinned. Mike was cool.
"But, you've got me here dear, at least. And you've come to the right place. But first thing's first. Is there anything you're desperate, dying to try to do?"
I searched myself for a moment and felt a little bummed to find I didn't have much of a driving passion for anything. How sad is that? Aren't people supposed to have like... yearnings to be something? Isn't that why the caged bird sings or whatever? What if the caged bird doesn't sing? What if it's just like, "Well here I am in a cage. Fuck it, I'll eat some birdie kibble" (or whatever birds eat). Is that bird some sort of failure of bird status? Do the other birds like somehow point their feathers and laugh as they fly by the caged bird? Does the caged bird even care? I mean, he gets birdie kibble (what DO birds eat?) fed to him however many times a day and someone cleans up his poo. Does the caged bird really need to aspire to anything in his life? That's the problem really. I had no one to feed me and wipe up my poo. But then, that's everyone's problem.
"I don't know... I mean..."
"It's hard to come up with a lifelong passion in five seconds, dear. Don't worry. Let's start with this. What was your favorite subject in school?"
"Art probably. I really liked that."
"Okay, good. So even if you're not the next Rembrandt, we could probably stick you in an art gallery, even if the work's a bit hum drum, and you might at least find yourself enjoying things a bit more than schlepping- what sort of restaurant do you work at?"
"Oh.. uh, burger joint."
"Schlepping greasy burgers. Right?"
"... Yeah, an art gallery sounds like it might be fun."
"Well, see there you go! That's a start isn't it?"
I sat up in my seat a little bit. Was this that optimism stuff everyone's been raving about? Okay, I'll admit. It's not too bad.
"And for all we know maybe Leonardo DaVinci once thought 'oh painting, sounds like it might be fun' and there you have it. This could be your calling or at least something you can do without wanting to melt into a puddle of goo at the end of the day and you won't know until you try, right?"
"Right."
"So I'll just search my nifty little database... and I've got a few art possibilities cropping up. You know we have an art museum here on campus, right?"
"We do?" Yeah, I don't think I've ever actually really examined a campus map outside of the frantic five minutes before I would be late for a class and no idea where on earth I was.
"Yes. And they just so happen to be looking for a few Museum Assistants. It's a small job, maybe a few hours a week at this point, but it's pretty decently paid so that might help you out, yeah?"
"Yeah, sounds like. How much per hour is it?"
"Um... $10 per hour," he said.
Shit. Yeah, I'll take ten per hour over 2.50 plus meager tips, thanks.
"Excellent. That'd be great actually," I said.
"Great, I'll set you up for an interview and give you a call during the week. When's the best time for interviews? About now? Same time same day?"
"Yeah," I said, "I've got these same classes on Mondays and Wednesdays so this is the free time between them.
"I'll see what I can do to get you in on Wednesday. Just show up with a little polish, a nice blouse with a collar should do it, and talk about how your waitressing work has given you loads of experience with handling a lot of tasks and dealing with customers. Actually, I can probably meet you outside of the Art Museum and prep you before you head in. How does that sound?"
"Good," I said grinning.
"All right, Ambrosia. I'll let you know, okay?" He grinned at me and patted me on the shoulder as he led me out of the office.
"Okay."
I called Phyllis twice more that day after my class let out and as I was changing for my next shift at work and the number was still disconnected. I wanted to throw my phone against the wall when I walked through the restaurant doors, hoping that maybe this was one of the last times I walked through them.
And there the boss was, polishing one of the pieces of another chess set. This one must've been the great stone set he needed to abandon the restaurant for.
"Isn't it nice?" he asked me, setting it down on the board and lifting up the bottom part like a proud baker, showing off his best cake to the audience. I desperately wanted to knock the pieces off and let the cakey goodness fall to the floor.
"Yeah," I said, writing my time down, "It's lovely."
Marsha sauntered pass me, popping her gum again in the side of her mouth. "About time. Are you late?"
"Uh, I don't believe I am actually. But I do think that you have gum in your mouth, again, after he's pretty much told you a million times that you're not allowed to chew gum on your shift," I said pointing to the boss.
Marsha turned her head towards him, but the chess set still held his attention and he fawned over it like a child with way too many toys on Christmas day.
"Really? Cause he doesn't seem to mind so much right now?" she snapped, shoving her time card back into the slot.
"That's because he has the attention span of a particularly forgetful goldfish with amnesia," I mumbled under my breath.
"You know that whole goldfishes having a three second memory is a myth, right? I learned that in my biology class. My high school biology class," she said, pulling on her coat.
"You know that when you graduate, your ability to keep people mildly entertained with the hopes that some of your popularity might rub off on them is going to mean about as much as how well you memorize facts about goldfish, right? I learned that from life," I sneered.
"Hey," the boss man family chirped, "Let's all get along here. No reason to be nasty to each other. We still have to work and keep this place going. Now, say goodbye Marsha," he said, waving her off.
